The distinct architecture being one of its highest points, where Asami is concerned. A beautiful country, this time of the year, specially.
The snow, however, Asami contemplates -- still through his private jet's window, right before he steps out -- is much too white, much too pretty, much too pure for his taste.
Asami meets up with Maksim Arbatov in Moscow. An hour and a half and a tour-drive around the capital later he is (not exactly) introduced to Arbatov Senior's heir, Mikhail, who is sun-bathing by the pool, being drowned not by transparent liquid sprinkled with chlorine but by a horde of female beauties, too busy to do much else but wave frantically at Asami and flash him a smile that shows all of his perfect, bleach-white teeth as if they were close friends.
The blond curls don't go unnoticed but money-washing takes priority. As he devours the young man with his eyes, Asami has a click: "Also, Asami-sama, if you could just… restrain your libido for a few days while you are abroad -- " (and away from my supervision, he hadn't finished).
Ah. So this is why. I see. He smirks at the youth, who returns his once-over. Sorry, Kei. No can do. Asami can feel Kirishima's exasperation towards him even from the other side of the Sea of Japan*, clinging to the bespectacled man's epidermis. It makes his lips twitch and level-up.
No virgin this one. I wonder if 'Papa' knows -- the whole of it, that is.
His hand flicks and ash vanishes from the tip of his Dunhill.
'Dirty laundry' has been done.
Or rather: is now in progress; but the dealing, in itself, has been completed.
Doing such a boring business himself isn't, at all, Asami's modus operandi*, but The Old Man had asked it of him as a 'personal request', so there had been little to no room for a diversion maneuver. Besides, doing Madara a favor is the same as doing his own past self a favor, and Asami's own satisfaction is definitely at the top of the list.
And if Asami didn't stick to the list… Kirishima would stick to Asami. Even more.
And yes, Kirishima's fits are as amusing as they've been since they were eleven and Asami would throw the other man's immaculate Algebra notes out the window, setting them free to the skies (as if Kirishima hadn't already decorated every damn formula, his brain organized in neat piles of post-its orderly stashed by color and topic), but enough is enough and with time it has lost some of its sparkle.
There is giant fireplace warming up the division where Asami plays chess with Maksim at said elder's request.
It doesn't take long.
Asami swallows his sigh of futility and declares, flatly, composed "\Check Mate.\"
In opposition, Mikhail couldn't care less about licking make-up over the dimples his spontaneous smile digs into his expression.
After dinner the forks and knifes clink against the dishes, most of them arranged neatly together at the center by the users except one set that hadn't even been utilised but is grabbed and put down again, without rigour and in a cross, making far more noise than it should.
Maksim turns to the one servant that is not collecting the dishware and orders "\Andrei, show \Asami-dono\ to his chambers.\" with an arrogance that is his due.
Mikhail stands, takes a bite off of the second half of his third tuna sandwich and offers to do so himself. His father only says "\Don't do anything that will get Asami to sever ties with us.\" and doesn't ever blink as his fingers search for his cigars, as they find them and bring one of the objects alive between fire and dry lips and faded ash-blond mustache.
Asami's brain forms a small imaginary smile inside his skull. Mikhail only takes a napkin to tap once softly at his clean mouth and purposely forgets to nod.
Mikhail doesn't try to seduce Asami. Doesn't need to.
"Shouldn't I had been led to my chambers?" Asami questions sternly but the tone brings out no harm intentions. His posture is perfectly aligned, one hand resting inside his trousers' pocket while the other transports an always present, portable chimney near his face.
Mikhail smiles wide and goes for a non-committal "...'My house is your house'?" He looks over his shoulder at the older male after having finished discarding his black jacket over a chair by his desk.
Asami looks around rapidly, taking in the surroundings. His naturally sharp eyes narrow until just a glint of amber can be seen. "I will not be sleeping here afterwards." he informs curtly.
Mikhail takes that as an positive response regarding his unspoken advances. "Your room's the one to the left, as soon as you step out the door."
"I had the impression you were straight." No need for tact whatsoever. "Still have, actually." And now Asami smirks and his eyes are dancing with a new light, definitely entertained. There is no falsity in his words, but that doesn't mean there is full-truth in them either.
Mikhail isn't put off, gets the point, jumps into the train, right on board. "I, like you, have no use for such stereotypes." The chest of drawers beside the dresser receives some of Mikhail's weight with an almost unnoticeable creak as his frame leans into it, facing his guest. "I appreciate beauty in all forms and you, Asami-san, are an irrevocably beautiful man."
Be it compliments or insults, qualities or weaknesses, every single detail is part of a whole, of a bigger picture. It all comes down to simple characteristics, and characteristics are what make (a) living-being(s) (and inanimate objects, and all else alike) what it is, what they are. Insensitive, cold, and the likes, he's been many times called. Certainly true. Now, as well, Asami has no doubts he is extremely physically appealing, far above average and to both genders. Still, it is nothing but a fact, so really, is he supposed to be swaying? Swooning? Fortunately, he has a brain above average as well, and he's delved beyond the junior Arbatov's first layer at the first look and confirmed it soon after the first crossed word. There is also far more to the boy than the flamboyant nature he exudes hand-in-hand with his pheromones.
"Will your girlfriends be pleased with this arrangement, Arbatov?" he asks. "I do not believe your father will." Not so true. The father couldn't care less what the son does with his nether regions and every other bits as long as it doesn't mess with his dealings, as he has so straight-forwardly admitted himself without strain.
Mikhail grins easily. "I can call a girl or two to join us, if you wish." He steps closer, right into the brunet's personal space, showing openly his lack of sense of privacy or shame. Saying he had no sense of danger would be wrong, though. He just has that much recklessness and guts sticking to him like glue. "And please, 'Arbatov' is my old man. Speaking of whom... Are you... afraid of my dad, Asami-san?"
"By no means, as fear is admittedly illogical. And if we are to disregard formalities, it is to go both ways." Asami slips a finger and eases off his tie. "Let us leave the ladies off the hook for now. We should first get... acquainted with one another."
Mikhail snickers. "You really are amusing. Ryūichi...?"
"Don't push it, kid."
Mikhail attempts to discard the cloth covering his upper body. "You have amazing eyes." he says, staring unabashedly at the dark-haired man. Asami is at his face, stopping his actions, turning him around with purpose. Then comes up from behind him and forces -- firmly and with a solid move -- rather than helps Mikhail out of his trousers.
"Says the one with eyes of water."
"What is the sea, but a mirror to reflect the sun."
The soft yet gun-callused pads of Asami's fingers twisting the flat perks of Mikhail's nipples, as they brush underneath the peach-colored button-up shirt that clings tightly to the light-haired man's torso. "A romantic young gangster. Are you planning on reciting sleazy poetry as you walk upon your future former leader's dead body?"
There is a quick fumble with something slick-cold that soon becomes slick-warm, when rubbed between palms, and then is spread over Asami's hard cock and Mikhail's entrance.
The tiny buttons of Asami's waistcoat press softly, feeling barely there, against Mikhail's perspiration-soiled ridge of spine. "Everything about you is sharp, Ryū -- "
It is agonizingly tight, even if slippery, and Asami is only about half-way in, give or take.
" -- ichi." Mikhail's voice is strained, taking a rougher timbre than usual. "Damn you... Asami… I thought Japanese guys were supposed to be smaller than average…?"
Asami allows himself a small chuckle. "Oh, but I am not your average Japanese, I'm afraid," he breathes against the Russian's ear shell. "Relax."
Mumbling to himself a "Heh, tell me about it…" and then, a bit out of breath, Mikhail murmurs "Sorry 'bout that..." He winces softly as Asami gives a tentative but far-from-gentle shove that opens him and buriesthe man all the way inside. "I don't bottom much."
Asami's laugh is deep and dark. "I figured as much." His hand comes around to grasp Mikhail's not-softened-in-the-least erection. "You enjoy a little pain, hm?" Fingers caress the dripping head gently, and as the muscles surrounding him begin to relax Asami takes advantage and pulls to the tip just to shove back in harshly.
A scream, disoriented, not knowing if from the tearing sensation, if from the intensity of the white-hot feeling, would have ripped itself through and out of Mikhail's larynx, had he not had the insight of covering his mouth with his hand.
"Maybe not just a little, but rather quite a bit." Asami's baritone sounds, expressing his extreme amusement.
"You -- 're a -- n ass..." Mikhail chokes between chuckles that hold more pained humor than anything else. Asami moves steadily, long movements meant to rub and reach all the right places for them both, and Mikhail pants and tilts his hips back in approval, his head hanging, just one hand supporting him on the chest of drawers. Asami is a bastard; a smart, hot, powerful bastard, and Mikhail wants all he has to offer him.
Mikhail had looked at Asami as the man had first made his presence known: simply standing as he is, not appearing more nor less, innately imposing and attractive and sucking in the attention of the people around him without fanfare. Interesting, he. Mikhail had mused immediately. Handsome couldn't begin to cover it. Gorgeous, more like. Drop-dead. Warning vibes worming from him in large groups, as if in him resided countless nests full of the things. It had felt like fun. And had made him feel a great deal scared, he reckons. A major turn-on.
The fingers rubbing the head became palms sliding down and up Mikhail's entire length in slow strokes before wrapping firmly at the base. Asami observes as the younger man bites his lip, through the medium-length mirror right in front; to spot himself from begging for respite, Asami knows.
Mikhail hisses as the head of Asami's cock pierces his prostate. It had never felt so satisfying like this, with a man; it didn't usually do it for him but it does now, with Asami working his body into a feverish rumble from deep within, until he shakes and colors fill his vision and he snaps his eyelids shut to impede the light-headedness to take over. He wants to come. Needs to come.
Asami skims his digits over the lean, toned expanse of hurt skin that scars all over the natural blonde's back. "Lover with no impulse-control?" His cock slides wetly, in and out of the willing body in sharp, unforgiving thrusts.
Mikhail gasps at the hot sensations. "Family member with repressed urges." he manages.
The ease and absence of pained memories at the breaching of the subject does not catch Asami unaware. The shallow wrappings with intense contents are incredibly rare, but they do still exist. "Daddy knows all about it and doesn't lift a finger, hm?"
A strangled chuckle squirms between low, throaty moans. "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, he says. And he's got a soft spot for his little brother."
It was one of those puzzles really easy and quick to put back together, the pieces so obvious and large that it took nothing to figure it out. Or rather, there was absolutely nothing to figure out. And when not even the owner takes the sweet time to hide or cheat... it leaves everything out there in the open for whoever to peek. So Asami just deems his curiosity sated and needn't any more details than that. He would, however, tip his metaphorical hat at the other for not being yet another self-deprecating, depressed kid he had had all the appropriate ingredients to become after the abuse taken. The strength and conviction and acting skills will continue to mold Mikhail into a man who will, undoubtedly, rise to the top, the corpse of his father the throne he'll stand proudly and deservedly upon.
Asami likes puzzles. Puzzles exercise the brain. Asami likes exercise, both inside and out, likes keeping himself in check, body and mind. Not the soul, no, that one thing having been long gone. So long, and so gone, it might as well never having existed. Then again, what is, in actual fact, a soul?
If asked, Mikhail wouldn't deny that he had fun talking during sex, like they where, but he hadn't expected Asami to be the same. But then he puts that aside when Asami stops using his mouth to talk to lap at Mikhail's sweaty back instead, leaving the gashes of his unnaturally red flesh shiny with saliva. It tickles a bit and feels good a lot more, making the member between his legs twitch that bit more on Asami's grip.
Mikhail tenses, which makes Asami tense, and they both tense and the tension reaches its peak and then disperses.
Mikhail wants to fall on his knees and sleep for two days, right there, on the floor, but opts for falling to the side on the soft bed at the last second. His need for comfort is still bigger than his laziness so he can't be that bad.
After, Asami dresses what little clothing he is missing and arranges for his post-coital smoke. His zippo, however, creates no spark. Time to get a new one, it seemed.
"My jacket." Mikhail mumbles. "Inside pocket." Voice still drowsy, tasting the after-glow and prolonging it, but at least being able to speak out something aside from his mother-tongue.
Asami searches the leather piece for it and a snap later the scent of burning tobacco coats and contaminates the oxygen in the compact room.
"I'm keeping it." and "Go ahead and keep it." they both start and finalize simultaneously.
Asami has no need to observe his reflected-self to understand his hair remains unblemished in its place. The same cannot be said of his blue-eyed companion, his untrained waves accomplishing the feat of rioting beyond stray state, helped by the sweat-breaking exercise. He looks as thoroughly fucked as he'd, indeed, just been. It is pleasantly satisfying to gaze at, Asami thinks, if momentarily.
Mikhail rolls over. "In a year, at most, it'll be with me you'll be making business with." Crawling to the feet of the bed, his face resting on the heel of a hand, his feet floating and swinging in the air with laziness.
"You know where to find me." Asami says. And then, always in a mood for teasing, tells the younger man to "Learn to speak proper Japanese until then." He exhales through his nose, a hazy cloud floating in front of him, and bends slightly, placing the only half-smoked cylinder between Mikhail's already parted, awaiting lips. "Perhaps we'll invite your lovely lady friends then. Or mine. We'll celebrate your becoming the Pakhan of your Bratva."
Mikhail doesn't bother opening his eyes, sleep already claiming his neurons and meat suit. He just grins around the cigarette and thinks he feels Asami's lips on his through it.
Asami produces a dark-as-the-dead-of-the-night membership card and leaves it on the desk. "And Misha, bring with you your best vodka when you visit." he adds, straightening his jacket.
Mikhail doesn't bother answering, sleep having already claimed his everything. His breathing doesn't take the last inhale of smoke to his lungs, going only as far as the cavity of his mouth.
When the Japanese man leaves through the door, so does the self-erased filter fall to the ground, thoroughly consumed.